


Burglar's Guarantee

by seashadows



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Time, M/M, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 16:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6016702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seashadows/pseuds/seashadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Fighting?</i> What did these people want to get him into? Dwarves and dishes and the disappearing contents of his pantry – this had to be a nightmare. </p><p>“Axe or sword,” the Dwarf said. “What’s your weapon of choice?” </p><p>Right, this was almost definitely a joke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burglar's Guarantee

**Author's Note:**

> Movie dialogue taken from [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1WSLu9yYZZk55wi4PgZ904qC2eaHMw-e3jhpGjNGWJMs/edit?hl=en&forcehl=1), with many thanks to TheHobbitMovie. 
> 
> Credit to lumateranlibrarian (same name here and on Tumblr) for her idea concerning a small bit at the end.
> 
> I'm godihatethisfreakingcat on Tumblr. :)

“So this is the Hobbit. Tell me, Mister Baggins, have you done much fighting?” 

“Pardon me?” _Fighting?_ What did these people want to get him into? Dwarves and dishes and the disappearing contents of his pantry – this had to be a nightmare. 

“Axe or sword,” the Dwarf said. “What’s your weapon of choice?” 

Right, this had to be a joke. He’d answer in kind. Bilbo straightened up, cocked his head, and said with his best humorous smile, “Well, I do have some skill with conkers, if you must know.” He’d left a few fair-sized bruises on his cousins’ foreheads with his prize conkers, at that. “But I fail to see why that’s relevant.” Everyone knew Hobbits preferred not to fight, if they weren’t completely soft in the head about Hobbits. 

“Thought as much.” Thorin folded his arms and smirked at Bilbo. Infuriating buggering, confounding, _confusticating_ Dwarf; Bilbo had half a mind to – “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.” 

That did it. The Tookish part of Bilbo’s brain stirred from slumber and he snapped his heels together, putting his hands on his hips. “And what would _you_ know about grocers?” he demanded. “What would you Dwarves know about groceries at all, you stubborn clod?” 

Thorin jerked back a step. “More than you, perhaps.” His eyes sparkled, though Bilbo couldn’t tell if it was from amusement or malice. He’d lay money on malice. “I’d wager I’ve lived far longer.” 

“How would you prove it, arsehole?” Bilbo shot back. 

The Dwarf’s thick brows knitted together. “That I’ve lived longer?” 

“That you know more about groceries.” The Took side of him, Bilbo thought, had clearly sustained a kick to the head from a pony at some point or other. A sensible Baggins would never spend time arguing with a Dwarf, or even spend time in the company of one for that matter, but here he was. “No one knows more about food than a Hobbit! That’s a fact. You’d know it if you knew anything at all.” 

Thorin raised one brow. His nostrils flared outward once, as if he were attempting not to laugh. Why did he have to be so damnably tall and…and Bilbo couldn’t concentrate with those eyes on him; it wasn’t fair! “Hobbits,” he said dismissively. 

With a snarl, Bilbo grabbed two handfuls of Thorin’s hair and yanked him down to tell him exactly what was what, and then, and then, and _then_ their lips were smashed against each other and Thorin’s mouth was opening and there was his _tongue_ , and Bilbo clung to him for dear life like an ivy vine and…

They broke away. Bilbo ran the back of his hand over his lips and dared a look around, his head spinning. The mouth of every Dwarf at his dining table had dropped open at some point during that kiss. He likely couldn’t have caused more of a commotion if he’d detonated one of his father’s whirligigs in the middle of the room. “Oh, _dear_ ,” he said, feeling his ears heat up. He’d be entirely sunset-colored before long. “Do pardon me.” 

Gandalf harrumphed. “Nothing to forgive, Bilbo,” he said, “nothing at all. Now, Thorin, I believe your relatives have left at least some of Bilbo’s fine fare to enjoy.” 

By all rights and all propriety, Bilbo knew he ought to have hidden himself in the kitchen or the pantry, berating himself for his horrid behavior. Instead he found himself dragging a stool to the table and sneaking bits of bread and biscuit while Thorin spoke. _Thorin_. Every time he looked at Thorin from under his eyelashes, he flushed all over again, from the top of his head down to…well. That didn’t bear thinking about, of course. It wasn’t at all proper. 

Still, how proper could he be if he’d snogged a Dwarf in plain sight of twelve more? Dad would certainly spin in his grave beneath the garden if he knew. Mum would likely just laugh, and that was what scared Bilbo about what might be lurking in his own hidden desires. 

Then he caught a word that certainly didn’t belong in Bag End. “You’re going on a quest?” 

“Bilbo, my dear fellow,” said Gandalf, “let us have a little more light.” 

He fetched a candle from the sideboard and brought it back lit as Gandalf took out a piece of parchment that looked like it had seen more bad days than good. 

“Far to the east,” Gandalf said, “over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak.” 

Well, that was rather more poetic than the situation called for. Bilbo couldn’t concentrate nearly as much as he knew he ought, though, when the only available spot where he could stand to read the map was right behind Thorin. His hair smelled smoky – not pipeweed, but something else he couldn’t put his finger on. Musk, too, a scent Bilbo recognized; he’d smelt that same hair oil on traveling Men, and found it quite pleasant. “The Lonely Mountain,” he read aloud, before he could say anything else to humiliate himself. 

Then two of the Dwarves cut in (brothers, Bilbo thought he recalled, with names that had ‘oi’ in them) with something about portents, and a beast. Beast? “Uh, what beast?” 

“Well,” said the Dwarf in the ridiculous hat, “that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat-hooks, extremely fond of precious metals…” 

“Yes, I know what a dragon is,” Bilbo cut in. He was beginning to feel queasy, and with the irritating (and, he feared, non-concealable) feeling in his trousers, his lower half felt altogether displeased with the current proceedings. Why, why, why did Thorin bleeding Oakenshield have to fulfill every single one of his wank fantasies? 

The Dwarves all began to speak up then. Not the best or brightest, Bilbo gathered from the shouting, and Gandalf likely didn’t know how to kill a dragon. Their mountain was locked, too, he gathered from the key Gandalf handed to Thorin. A foolish quest, then, and he was entirely the wrong Hobbit to be recruited for it. Someone who was entirely a Took might be a better choice, if they had to choose a Hobbit at all, or a Brandybuck. They were queer folk in Buckland, and braver than he. 

“That’s why we need a burglar!” said the youngest Dwarf, whose voice still threatened to crack on exertion. 

“Hmm, a good one, too,” Bilbo said, seizing the moment. _Not me. Leave me alone!_ “An expert, I’d imagine.” 

“And are you?” asked the Dwarf with the fierce red beard. 

“Am I what?” 

The Dwarf with the ear-horn crowed, “He said he’s an expert!” and it was pandemonium all over again. Bilbo felt a brief urge to hit his head against the wall until everything went dark. 

Thankfully, Balin rescued him, and while Bilbo wasn’t quite sure if ‘gentlefolk’ was an insult or not, he was inclined to agree. Balin looked old and wise; surely his fellows would agree with him. But of course, Gandalf ruined everything by standing up and insisting that “if I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is!” 

Thorin swiftly turned his head, startled, at the sound of Gandalf’s voice. His smell wafted even more strongly into Bilbo’s nose, and suddenly, Bilbo found that he’d gone from a mild discomfort in his trousers to one whopper of a stiffy. This was quite possibly the worst time to be hard. It had to be that his cock had stolen his ability to think; why else would he allow someone to shove a contract into his hands over the _faintest_ of protests, one that promised – 

“…including but not limited to lacerations, evisceration… _incineration?_ ” 

“Oh, aye,” said Master Loudmouth Hat, “he’ll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye.” 

Bilbo gulped hard and desperately tried to will some blood to rush to his head. The queasiness markedly increased instead. “Hm.” 

“You all right, laddie?” asked…yes, Balin, that was his name. 

“Ah…yes.” Bilbo closed his eyes and bent to place his hands on his knees. If he could only get his head between them, he might be able to keep from passing out. 

The loudmouth chose that time to add, “Think furnace with wings.” 

“Air,” Bilbo gasped, “I…I…I need air.” 

“Flash of light, searing pain, then _poof_ , you’re nothing more than a pile of ash!” 

That did it. The back of his head met the floor with a poleaxed thump, and as the last of his consciousness left him, he heard Gandalf exclaim “Oh, very helpful, Bofur!”

_

He woke to the sensation of someone touching his forehead, and slowly, the awareness came to him that he was sitting up. Bilbo’s eyes slowly opened and his best parlor came into a familiar view – he was in his armchair, then. Then Gandalf’s worried face obscured his view. “You’re awake,” he said. “Terribly sorry, Bilbo. Bofur will –“

“Don’t tell me what Bofur will or won’t do,” Bilbo interrupted. Thorin was standing behind Gandalf like a great lump, and his look of…was that concern? At any rate, whatever it was, it roused Bilbo all over again. “You, Thorin,” he said, pointing a finger at the Dwarf, “you, you, _you_ take me to my room. This instant. You’ve started this mess and you’ll finish it!” 

“Are you certain that that’s wise?” Gandalf said, the most unsure Bilbo had heard him sound all evening. 

“Yes!” He’d been threatened with all manner of horrid things tonight, not least of which was because of this lout, and he _would_ have what he wanted. If he concentrated, he thought he could still feel the memory of Thorin’s lips on his. He touched his lower lip first with one finger, then with the tip of his tongue. “You. Now.” 

Thorin made a noise in his throat that Bilbo could only describe as a growl and, sweeping past Gandalf, plucked Bilbo out of his chair and hefted Bilbo in his arms as if he were a faunt. If the redness of Thorin’s face and the heaviness of his breathing were any indication, though, his feelings were anything but parental. “Don’t follow me, wizard,” he said over his shoulder. “Master Baggins and I have further business to discuss.” 

“Business,” said Bilbo, “that’s a fine term for it!” Thorin answered him with another growl and swept him away to the front hall, then down the main corridor leading off to the sleeping-wing. 

That was where he stopped. “Where is your room?” he asked, quieter than his prevous thunder. 

Well, it was foolish of him not to have given directions in the first place, wasn’t it? “There,” Bilbo said, and pointed. “Two doors down, on the right. There’s a lock.” Thorin muttered his thanks and kept going. When they reached his room, Thorin set Bilbo down carefully on the bed, then closed the door, threw the lock shut, and was suddenly upon him. 

Bilbo let out a deep moan and wrapped his legs around Thorin’s waist on instinct. It had been so long since he’d done something like this and it felt so bloody _good_. Bugger everything these Dwarves were trying to bring to his door; Thorin’s cock was hard when Bilbo ground against it, and he would have it against him, or inside him, or _something_ if it killed him. He got his hand between them and began to stroke himself through his trousers, which he could already feel dampening with his threatening spend, and let himself cry out as loud as he liked. 

Thorin wriggled away, and Bilbo whined his displeasure, but Thorin was only removing his boots. And his coat, as it turned out, and his tunic, and his chest hair was very, _very_ abundant through the front opening of his shirt. “What will we do?” Oh, Thorin’s voice rumbled through Bilbo as deep as thunder. He thrust his hips up, the better to press his cock against his trousers (no smallclothes tonight and all the better for it). 

Thorin skinned out of his shirt and trousers, and then there he stood before Bilbo in all his powerful, muscular, in-more-ways-than-one _hard_ glory. “Rub?” Bilbo said faintly. 

“I know,” Thorin said with all the triumph of someone who had successfully invented a new meal, and got back into the bed, turning over onto his back. “Straddle my thigh, Bilbo Baggins. Ride me.” 

“You,” Bilbo squeaked, though he wanted desperately to obey. “What about you?” 

Thorin licked his lips just like he had earlier, and Bilbo suddenly squeezed his cock so he wouldn’t go off and make an embarrassment of himself this instant. “I have hands, or you have a thigh and your own hands as well. You choose.” He swallowed and added in a ragged whisper, “Please.” 

Bilbo needed no more prodding (of that sort, anyway); he removed his clothes, scrambled up on Thorin’s enormous thigh, and tensed his own. Thorin boosted himself up on his elbows with a deep groan and watched him with dark, dilated eyes. The sight alone… “So lovely,” Bilbo sighed, and began to move himself back and forth on Thorin’s leg. It was dry going, so he spat into his hand and gave the area a bit of slick, and then, _oh_ …

By Thorin’s shout, it seemed the Dwarf found it just as perfect as Bilbo did. When Bilbo ventured his hand down to explore his cock, Thorin held it there in an iron grip, and Bilbo began to shakily stroke him as he used Thorin’s thigh to further his own pleasure. Confusticating bebotherated lovely _lovely_ Dwarf, he was going to bring him off – 

Thorin gasped and, suddenly, pulled Bilbo down, crushing them together for a kiss. His lips feverishly moved against Bilbo’s own before he took Bilbo’s lower lip between his teeth and bit down _hard_. One of his hands found the tip of Bilbo’s ear and drew out a gasp. How did Thorin know where to touch him? Was it some Dwarven instinct? “Halfling,” he grunted. “Bilbo!” 

“Mm!” Bilbo thrust his hand between their sweating bodies – his cock pressed against Thorin’s belly, Thorin’s wedged between his thighs and rubbing there – and stroked. He didn’t know who he was stroking, or where; it all blurred into pleasure. He kissed Thorin all the harder and used his tongue there in just the same way as his hand moved below, and the pleasure built higher and higher until he knew he was going to peak. 

Thorin was the one to peak first, though; he stiffened and threw his head back, then pressed kiss after desperate kiss into Bilbo’s neck as he flooded Bilbo’s hand. Bilbo could hold back no longer when he saw that, and felt himself release harder than he had in a long time before he collapsed on Thorin, no strength left in him whatsoever. 

The hazy thought came to him that he might have fainted again. Why else would he think that Thorin was still kissing his ears and neck, this time with both arms around the small of Bilbo’s back and his nose rubbing everywhere that his lips didn’t? Surely Dwarves didn’t kiss affectionately, but then, he wouldn’t have thought they kissed in any way. Or cuddled. 

Then again, he thought with a slight chuckle, he didn’t know much about Dwarves to begin with. 

“Mm,” said Thorin, and mumbled something into the tip of Bilbo’s ear that he couldn’t understand. 

It seemed he would need to reconsider coming on an adventure, after all.


End file.
